


Part of Your World

by AeeDee



Category: DCU (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Dark, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-01
Updated: 2013-09-01
Packaged: 2017-12-25 07:03:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/950124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AeeDee/pseuds/AeeDee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Inspired by this <a href="http://aeedee.tumblr.com/post/20388564600/bruce-and-dick-seinemajestat-gorgeous">series of illustrations</a>, a what-if scenario inspired by the New 52 Batman series: if Dick was a member of the Court of Owls.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Part of Your World

He doesn’t know if it’s the rain or his tears. His eyes are burning. Blood’s washing off his hands, a trail of red spreading across the wet asphalt. The steady hum of the rain, as it rattles against the pavement, small splashes of red drops that rise and shatter away.

He’s on his knees, and he’s starting to sway back and forth, arms clenched tight across his chest for some measure of comfort. His hands are starting to shake, and he doesn’t know if he’s nervous or scared, or something else entirely. It’s the hum of the rain and the splashes of red and the portrait of blood and torn fabric and skid marks across the pavement, and the realization that he’s bleeding, that he’s wounded, that he’s been bleeding and wounded for several minutes now.

But that’s not what hurts the most. That’s not what’s done him in. Not this time.

He’s shaking, trembling and embracing himself for comfort and it’s only a matter of minutes before they find him. Before they ask him to report in, before they come searching for the corpse he was supposed to provide. It’s only minutes before they arrive, only minutes before they ask what happened to the Batman and what happened since he radioed and told them he was contained.

“Target acquired,” that’s what he said. “Target is,” and there was a jolt in his voice and a jerk when he was interrupted by an angry fist hurled towards his face, and he leaned back as he seized it, a strong grip on that bleeding hand with broken fingers, “contained.” And he was pinning him in place, legs mounted over his waist and his hands digging into his wrists, and he was wrestling him down like a wild animal, the fury of adrenaline and energy and it was a disorienting rush when that man continued to swing and push back and twist and turn beneath him.

The Batman was coughing on his own blood, suffocating himself in the heavy rain and he couldn’t even see; he’s certain that man couldn’t see, because his cowl was torn up where he’d swiped at him before, a clawed glove cutting up flesh and making a terrible mess of his face. His eyes were intact, and furious; preserving them was an act of mercy. He doesn’t remember it well enough to know why. Mercy, an instinctive hint of something one might call compassion. The acknowledgement of an opponent that needs to be broken, deserves to be defeated but not destroyed.

He’s gone too far; he’s gone too far, now.

When the Batman struggled against him, fought with every breath he had, every ragged and pained breath to live. When he continued to twist and turn and hit and push and swing and miss and swing again. When he was pinned completely, when he was pinned from his legs to his hands, and he used the weight of his body, pressing heavy down on top of him to keep him still. When he crawled over the Batman like a predator about to claim his victim, and stared him down for what should have been the last time. Mask long since discarded, rain soaking through his hair and stinging his eyes and he recalls thinking that the expression on the Batman’s face was something he’d never seen before. That he could see his vulnerability, the subtle hint of terror in the stillness in his eyes. That his breathing was finally slowing down. That his body was relaxing enough to bleed; that the tension in his arms was weakening. That he was giving in; giving in, giving in, giving in.

That, just then, he was readying himself to die.

“Bruce Wayne,” was the only thing he said to him. And the Batman widened his eyes, slowly and slightly, his jaw clenched tightly shut. His lack of response was the only affirmation he needed.

Bruce Wayne, the King of Gotham. Beaten, bleeding, bruised and broken. Ready to be exterminated. Swift and painless, from here on out. Simple and swift. He would use a small dagger to slice his throat open; he would suffocate for a brief time, but he knew how to make it happen suddenly. Knew how to make it only last for a few desperate, terrified breaths before it was over.

Bruce Wayne, King of Gotham. Beaten, bleeding, bruised and broken. Ready to die.

He’s thinking back to the time when he first met this man. When they gave him the information, where to find him, how to lure him, how to trap him. How to attack, how to weaken, how to provoke and manipulate his instincts. How to break him down, limb by limb, strike by strike. He danced around him effortlessly, gracefully, easily. He climbed around and above and all around him, scaled the walls and swung between the lampposts and delivered the killing blow from above, when he swooped down and broke his legs.

Perfect, swift, beautiful. For most targets, that would be the end of it. But not the Batman.

The Batman was different. The Batman fought back. He walked on broken legs, kicked with cracked knees, swung with shattered arms. Punched with broken fingers and shouted with a bleeding mouth. Stared with furious eyes and even now, even in the minutes before his death, he continued to stare at him directly, to stare without any uncertainty or confusion. No doubt. No fear; not of him. Fear of death, of the unknown, that was a possibility. But never, of him.

And in many ways, he felt like he was putting down a valiant warrior, to kill this man. But it wasn’t just that. Not just that, only.

Bruce Wayne, King of Gotham. Ready to die. He’s thinking back to when he first met this man, before they gave him the information about his alter identity. He’s thinking back to when he was only a child, and Bruce Wayne was an important guest, a sponsor of the circus. He’s thinking back to the days when he still held joy in his heart, before he knew his ultimate purpose. Back to the days when he loved to jump and swing and fly, for the happiness and freedom of it. Before he knew the reason why he was pushed so hard, the reason why he was encouraged, why he was supported, why he was rigorously trained from the minute he learned how to walk. Before he knew why he had no fear. Before he knew why he never possessed a concern for gravity, why he needed to chase perfection, why he needed to be the greatest acrobat to ever perform at Haly’s.

When they gave him his mask, that heavy burden; when they placed weapons in his hands and taught him how to use them. When it felt like a game—it was fun in the very beginning—and when he killed the first man. And when he killed the second. And the third. When he realized that those deaths were real, those deaths were murders and those targets were never coming back for another round of practice.

Bruce Wayne, King of Gotham. The man that raised his hands and clapped louder than anyone, a cheering applause and a broad smile on his face when he stood in the front row of the audience. When he pulled him aside after the show, and told him he would go on, that he could go on to accomplish great things. He called him a star; he called him a natural talent. He said he was impressive and incomparable. He put an arm around his shoulder and told him to, “Keep in touch, kid.”

Bruce Wayne. About to die.

He wasn’t prepared for the tightness in his chest. Wasn’t prepared for the tension in his throat. Wasn’t prepared for the tremble that started in his hands and began to spread through his arms, and the slight flinch of confusion in the Batman’s eyes. The rain—the goddamned rain—it started to burn, and he didn’t know if it was the rain, or his tears, but he couldn’t see anymore.

“Keep in touch, kid”- no, that’s not what he said.

That’s not what he said at all. And he’s thinking back.

“Keep in touch, Dick.”

To the days when he still had a name.

He doesn’t know if it’s the rain or his tears. His eyes are burning. Blood’s washing off his hands, a trail of red spreading, spreading away from him. The steady hum of the rain, as it slows its rhythm against the pavement, small splashes of red drops that rise to the sky and shatter away.

He’s on his knees, and he’s swaying back and forth, arms clenched tight across his chest for some measure of comfort. His hands are shaking; he knows he’s not nervous or scared, but something else entirely. It’s the hum of the rain and the splashes of red and the portrait of blood and torn fabric and skid marks across the pavement, and the realization that he’s bleeding, that he’s wounded, that he’s been bleeding and wounded for several minutes now.

It’s the realization that at any minute, they will arrive. They will find him. They will ask what happened. They will ask what he’s done to him. What he’s done to the Batman, to the target he acquired and somehow let slip away.

He’ll tell them the truth. He can’t lie. He’s been trained, programmed, beaten, conditioned not to lie. So he’ll tell the truth. He’ll tell them that he had the Batman contained, had him down to his last breaths, and that he chose to let him live.

That he whispered his name, “Bruce Wayne,” and that he told him that he was wrong. “Dick is dead,” and that’s the end of the story. This is where it ends tonight.

Dick Grayson, Talon of the Court of Owls. Ready to die.


End file.
